God Is Laughing
by ThePaperWhale
Summary: William passes judgment on the victims of Jack the Ripper, and reflects on what it means to be a 'Grim Reaper'.


There is really nothing subjective about judging the sins of departed souls. Complex, yes. There would be no need for an extensive Grim Reaper training process otherwise, but all the classes on cinematic record analysis, memory deconstruction, situational ethics ultimately boil down to mathematics. There are set numbers assigned to any action- added for good deeds, subtracted for wrongdoings, multiplied by the scale, intent, the number of lives affected, all coming to a final score that determines the soul's destination in the afterlife. The process rarely takes more than a few minutes.

William T Spears, an exemplary Reaper in the dispatch department, finds it distasteful that all collections logs are printed with a reference graph of these numbers on the inside cover. The suggestion that a Reaper might even hesitate on the job is nigh offensive. Anyone who has made it to the field should know these formulas more fluently than their native tongue.

They must also possess a very particular constitution to work in collections. That's not to say that a few very odd ducks aren't among their ranks, but the simple fact is that for reasons unseeable (as are the reasons behind most of His works) the Lord saw fit to create their kind with a very human-like sense of empathy, quite contrary to the requirements of collections work, which demands perfect neutrality, critical thought, and above all else, efficiency. Most Reapers do not make it past their first years of collections school, breaking down at the sight of too much carnage, faltering in pity for the suffering of the departed. Those types usually end up spending many happy years working in scythe construction or accounting. As for the remaining few who make it to graduation, well...

It's only a matter of time.

In hindsight, Dispatch Agent Sutcliffe was assigned a few too many brutal inquisition cases a few years too soon out of school, and never seemed quite right afterward. If William had been in management then, he might have paid closer attention to the signs of disturbance and prescribed psychiatric analysis and medical leave for his employee, back before the madness became an indelible liability. Perhaps that might have prevented the department's current disgrace.

Hindsight, however is 20/20 (as the adage goes), and Reapers, in accordance with the Lord's ironic vision of creation, are all of them quite literally myopic.

Still, they do a damned good job of hunting.

Wandering ghosts are generally difficult to locate, as the higher powers have no threads of fate tied to them, and even demons can't be bothered to track them down. (A meal that's rotten and festering loses its appeal, even to the hounds of Hell.) Now that the mystery of the Whitechapel murders has been solved, however, the department has been able to quickly deduce the potential haunting locations of the victims' missing souls. Junior dispatch agent Alan Humphries is on their trail, ordered to neutralise the chaotic poltergeists and gather what he can of their cinematic records. He should return at any moment.

William likes Alan Humphries. He's perhaps the most promising new collector on the London team; quiet, graceful, methodical, at the top of his graduating class. He sometimes takes slightly longer to complete assignments than others, but he is thorough and follows regulation, and no one can fault him for that. Perhaps he will be the one to succeed William's position in the future.

"These are all of them?" William asks, only as a formality, as the stack of reel cases appears on his desk. Alan is the only agent whom he doesn't really need to worry about when it comes to ensuring that tasks are completed, but decorum is William's foothold on sanity in a vocation where most end up burnt out or dead.

"All of them, sir," says Alan. Will doesn't look up from his current file.

"Very well then, I permit you to pass judgment on all of them."

There is a moment of hesitation that he doesn't even pay attention to until Alan speaks again, in a meek, uncertain voice.

"It almost seems as if..." he says, and his fingers curl into a fist over his left breast pocket, "as if they've been through Hell already."

Will looks up and notes the pallor, the slight tremble, the distant gaze accompanying Alan's uncharacteristic diffidence.

"You look unwell," he says.

"Oh, I am fine, sir, really. Simply a bit exhausted from the chase."

"Take the night off, then. You've done a commendable job today."

"But the cinematic records-"

"I will judge them myself. It is nothing I cannot handle. I expect you rested and back to task in the morning."

Alan takes a deep breath, nods, and bows, his palm still lingering over his heart.

"Yes sir."

The signs are there, although it is too soon to tell: Agent Humphries shows evidence of softness, sympathy, sentimentality, that could very well negate his otherwise flawless work ethic. William wonders how long he will really last; if he'll overcome the hindrance of his emotions long enough to advance in the ranks. It's always difficult to predict; destiny is funny that way.

There was once a legendary Reaper, since retired to funeral work in the human realm, who was said to have lost his mind after his harvest of souls surpassed the count of one million. (The claim is unsubstantiated rumor, but likely enough.) He resigned without warning, leaving only a note on garishly pink stationery:

'Over the years one may find that there is little difference between tragedy and comedy.'

Objectively, the cinematic records are as simple to calculate as any others. Subjectively, the visions presented are so bleak and heartbreaking that Will is glad he didn't allow Alan to review them, lest they create inklings of yet another like Sutcliffe. He works diligently, finalising each judgment with a notarised stamp and tucking it away neatly in a black envelope.

'In the spirit of complete neutrality, a Reaper must always perform his or her duties with a grim visage. To smile while on duty is outright forbidden.'

- That was the quote in the university's introductory text that had always perplexed Will. Not because he disagreed, but because he couldn't see why it even needed to be said. Why anyone would even want to smile while carrying out the solemn work of death was beyond his comprehension.

Even now he doesn't understand it, but it becomes more and more apparent, in the ubiquitous fanged grins of Grell, and the resounding, infectious giggles of the man now simply called Undertaker, that it is only a matter of time before he too will begin to fight back a perverse smirk at each little tragedy. Nobody lasts long in collections. Not without permanent damage.

It is not his place to criticise the Lord Almighty, but it would have made more sense in the scheme of creation if they had all been born with better eyesight and hearts and minds truly as 'grim' as implied by their name.

He can only assume that God is looking down on them and laughing.


End file.
